


Soot & Stars

by PazithiGallifreya



Series: Lady Cadash [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Don’t copy to another site, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 11:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17000772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: Early scenes from Dari Cadash's time as the Herald of Andraste (and eventually Inquisitor) and the beginnings of her relationship with the man called Blackwall





	1. Dead Man's Hand

**Author's Note:**

> These were a bunch of one-offs I posted on tumblr while re-playing Cadash's game. I had kind of a nebulous intention of eventually expanding on them and connecting them that never actually happened. Considering the current state of that website, though, I figured I'd better put them somewhere else if I wanted to keep them at all, so here they are.
> 
> If you'd like to start with something more polished, just skip ahead to the next story in the series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She might have wept, if she'd had the time, to see him in such a state. Ironically, time was the one thing they had none to spare.

Dari Cadash tossed and turned on the narrow bed in her private cabin, unable to rest this night. They’d struck a blow against this “Elder One” when they brought Magister Alexius’s plans to an end, but she felt no relief at their apparent victory.

Solas had given her a warning upon their return to Haven, and he wasn’t wrong - who or whatever this being was, he wouldn’t lay idle for long. He’d show himself, sooner or later, and the Inquisition, as disorganized as it was, must be able to meet him. She only hoped that Cassandra and Cullen would stop arguing long enough to prepare. Neither of them had been pleased with her when she’d returned with the entire retinue of rebel mages, practically floating on a promise of a full alliance with the Inquisition, a promise given by the Herald of Andraste herself. Only time would reveal the full consequences of her decision. Cullen’s dire predictions of mass possession seemed impossible, but after the day she had, could anything truly be said to be beyond the realm of the possible?

Worse, though, were the images that would not leave her alone this night.

Red. Red, red, glowing crimson _red_. She closed her eyes and it was all she could see, the red eyes of her companions, accusing, despondent, hopeless and yet full of hope, and resolve. 

They’d died for her. Varric had been cracking jokes almost to the very end. She could still hear Leliana reciting the Chant of Light as an army of demons poured into Recliffe castle.

She could see Blackwall’s eyes most vividly of all - angry, sad, confused, _red_. 

_“Oh Mother, where was your Maker when you needed him most?”_

It had taken several long moments for him to look at her, to _really_ look at her. He hadn’t believed she was there at first, not really. What memories and phantoms had tormented him in that year? Even after he’d joined her, determined to fight because she’d asked him, he seemed half awake and yet lost still in a waking nightmare.

 _You need to end this._ Leliana had had no patience for her worthless apologies, no use for Dorian’s explanations. _This is all_ pretend _to you, some future you hope will never exist. I suffered. The_ whole world _suffered. It was_ real _._

“Could it have all been an illusion?” Solas had asked her. He’d seemed cross when she’d assured him it had been very, very real.

Blackwall… poor Blackwall… he’d wanted to know what he’d been like. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him the truth - that he’d been broken and angry and so, so lost. But she’d told him part of the truth - that he’d fought and died a hero’s death.

“Then I was worth something, in the end.”

_In the end._

* * *

Cadash rolled upright and out of bed. She threw her long coat on over the thin linen tunic and trousers she wore to bed. It was bitterly cold when she stepped outside, as it always was in Haven after sunset, but she felt overheated and needed to move. Most of the camp was quiet and still, only a few soldiers on night watch standing about. There was still light pouring out of the windows of the little tavern, but she wasn’t interested in drink or rowdy company.

Cadash walked through Haven’s gate and over to the forge, giving the horse that Dennett had gifted her a pat on the shoulder as she passed. 

He was there, sitting on a crate in the cold wind, a small knife in one hand whittling away at a scrap of wood. She could move in perfect silence when she wanted to, even on fresh snow. It was one of the few skills she’d managed to perfect over the years, despite her clumsiness. 

She down sat on another crate near him, just barely within his peripheral vision. His hands stilled for a moment, then continued. He knew she was there. They’d done this before, numerous times, although never after dark. She would arrive in silence and sit and say nothing, just sitting beside him while he kept his hands busy. Sometimes, but not always, she’d eventually speak, asking him about some or another matter - the Wardens, mages, Templars, his opinion of this or that going on within the Inquisition, how wars are fought and won and lost. 

He would always demur or deflect when she asked him about himself, about his past, in any direct manner, but a picture, however shadowy and vague, was forming in her mind, of a man with a much more complicated past than a simple Warden recruiting in the Hinterlands. He knew too much about too much for it to be that simple. He wanted to leave it behind, whatever it was. Something had hurt him and he’d turned his back on it, that much was clear. It was something she could understand all too well, really. Tonight, especially, she could understand wanting to push the images out of one’s head, to bury them so deep they could be forgotten completely.

She wasn’t doing a very good job of it, though. She tilted her head and watched his rough hands working at the wood with more care and thoughtfulness than one might expect from such a man. 

There was a waning moon this night, not quite full any longer, but bright enough in the cloudless frozen expanse of the sky to cast a pale blue light over Haven and everything in it, reflecting vividly from fresh snowfall.

The moonlight reflected too in his eyes, when he looked up, a dim but clean white light, so utterly different from the lurid red she’d seen… had it really just been earlier this day? It had been hours and had felt like an eternity in that future-that-was-and-yet-was-not, but almost no time had passed when she returned only moments after she’d left. Cadash wrapped her arms around herself, curling over. She held in her breath, trying not to let horror and pain take over her, but it was useless. One sob escaped, followed by a whine that made her blush in shame.

The sound of blade against wood halted and Cadash stood, turning her back to the Grey Warden beside her. She had no right to burden him with this, she thought. He’d asked, earlier, and she’d given him as much of an answer as he needed. He had humored her curiosity and her constant imposition upon his limited free time over the past weeks, but this pain was hers to carry.

She could feel him watching her, no doubt wondering what the bloody hell was wrong with her all of a sudden, but she couldn’t stop crying, nor could she bring herself to leave, afraid of being alone and yet having no one she could really turn to. She barely _knew_ anyone here, even after weeks.

“My lady…?”

She dug her fingernails into her coat sleeves, shaking her head in denial. She heard him sigh behind her. _He probably thinks I’ve lost my bloody mind and he wouldn’t be all that wrong_. 

He laid a hand on her shoulder, pulling her gently to turn, and she allowed him. He guided her back to the crate she’d been sitting on again, and returned to his own. She drew in a deep breath of frigid air, regaining some slight control of herself, although she could not quite stop crying. “You must think me some sort of fool or a child acting like this.”

Blackwall hesitated a moment. “Ah… no, I don’t. It’s been a long day, I suppose. I admit I don’t really know what you saw… I wasn’t there after all.”

Cadash began sobbing in earnest again. A scrap of cloth, rough but clean, was awkwardly thrust at her and she took it. “Yes you were, you were there. You _died_ , Blackwall. You _died_.”

Blackwall cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably where he sat. “I… I’m here now, aren’t I? Everything worked out.”

“It did, Blackwall, but it also didn’t - you died there in Redcliffe, even if you can’t remember it. You _all_ did, You and Varric and Leliana. I couldn’t do one single damned thing to stop it. You all died so I could escape, all on a flimsy promise that I might be able to erase it all. Leliana was right - you all suffered, _it was all real_ , it doesn’t matter that Dorian turned it back in the end.”

She heard him moving. No doubt she’d crossed some line, maybe it was just all too much even to hear about. Who the hell would want to hear about their own death? She should have kept her mouth shut. _No wonder you can’t make any friends_.

He came to kneel in front of her, a knee resting in the dust in front of her feet. He bent down and looked up, trying to catch her eye. She lifted her head just enough to see his eyes, to peer into just them long enough to reassure herself that there was no hint of red in them. 

“If I truly did die like you said, I do not regret it, my lady. I would do it all over again, if it saved y–… if it saved this world.”

Cadash wiped at her face with the cloth he’d given her, turning aside, unable to withstand the sight of him any longer. “Blackwall… just promise me something. Just one thing.”

“Of course, Herald, _anything_ –”

She turned back to him again, to his eyes that were not red. “Don’t be in a hurry to throw your life away, Blackwall. Just promise you won’t waste it, not on my account.”

Blackwall blinked at her, taken off guard, it seemed. He stood, stepping back from her. “Sometimes one… I… ah… of course, my lady. As you say.”

* * *

After returning to her cabin, she laid in bed seeing no longer eyes burning red, but rather a softer gray. It occurred to her though - he never actually did _promise_.


	2. Chapter 2

There are days like this, when the noise is too much.

They become more frequent the longer it all drags on. The scouts bring news, drop by drop, dot by dot, building up the image of their enemy’s movements, of his agents, of the tendrils spreading throughout the land, corrupting whatever it touches. It’s all distilled down to a few molded lead markers strewn across a map on the rough-hewn table they use for planning.

They all want the same thing, in the end - to see Corypheus destroyed and peace restored - but the goal is obscured by a million details, all the what-if’s and should-we’s. She’s asked them to be civil, begged them to stop shouting at one another, and for a few minutes, they do, but it never lasts long. Josephine tries to barter compromise, nearly as exasperated as the Inquisitor herself,  but even the most skilled ambassador cannot broker peace when no one is listening in the first place.

Cadash would put an end to it herself, but she cannot. She did not gain their true respect as the people’s proclaimed Herald and they barely respect her as The Inquisitor they made her into. She’s a nobody suddenly made into a figurehead, and they all know it, in the end.

“You do not understand the nuances of real battle, Inquisitor, you haven’t experienced it, so you should listen to me,” Cullen tells her, his syllables clipped and short, his impatience simmering, showing in the deepening crease between his eyes. Cadash is not at all sure he understands open warfare, either, not on the scale they are facing, but she keeps that thought to herself.

“You may have been a smuggler, you might know Carta business, but you have never dealt with anything as complicated as this,” Leliana tells her as the steel behind her eyes flashes, “I was the Left Hand of the Divine for years, I know how to deal with these things. My people will handle this. You  _must_ trust me.” Cadash is not at all sure that trust is wise here, but she keeps that thought to herself as well.

Oh, they make a show of respect and deference where it is needed, when other eyes are watching. She can see the pity written in Josephine’s expression, a silent look of resignation and sympathy shared across the war table as the other two are too preoccupied with each other to notice the little dwarf at all.

She’s barely a pawn on this chessboard, and certainly not a queen. Why do they insist she even attend these meetings? To keep up the appearance that she is their leader? She could just as easily walk through the door, and sit on the sofa before the fireplace in Josephine’s office, nobody would notice the difference. They’d be better served by letting Cassandra take her place. The Seeker would sometimes attend as well, but not today. Cassandra would have made a better Inquisitor, Cadash thinks. Why did they not choose her?

She’s hidden from them before, when she simply could not stand the thought of this, and they’ve sent people after her, scouring Skyhold to drag her back to the war table. The people of Skyhold and the Inquisition look to her for leadership, after all. She must be _seen_ , if not always heard.

By the time they are shouting at one another, their voices pounding over her head like boulders thrown from catapults, it begins. Her skin feels too hot, too tight, an almost electric feeling running up and down her spine as her chest tightens and she begins to drown. The noise of their voices and wild gesticulating becomes a hissing in her ears, and the sunlight streaming in through the windows grows so bright that it hurts her eyes, eyes which were never meant to see the sun if you listened to the traditionalists. There’s no underground to hide in here, and she has no desire for the Deep Roads anyway, corrupt and terrible as they are. But some ancient part of her aches for retreat, for somewhere close and dark, quiet and safe.

She simply endures it until she can leave, most of the time. Cullen’s fist lands with a dull thud on the rough hewn table, causing a few of the markers to jump and topple over. It’s the last blow Cadash’s nerves can take; she cries out and swings her arms wide as though fending off a blow, scattering the remaining tokens on the map of Orlais and Ferelden in front of her. The small lead objects tumble across the stone floor as she turns away from her advisors. She pushes the ancient wood door open just enough to escape and gulps the air in the hallway as though coming up from water. Cullen and Leliana’s argument pauses, and she can feel the their hard stares at her back, their silent judgement weighing her up and finding her as inadequate as always, forever the ugly, dirty, know-nothing Carta castoff who somehow landed in their collective lap.

A dwarf, after all. What does a dwarf know? They pay lip service to the Herald of Andraste, and for all their piety, she can tell they don’t quite buy it, some subconscious part of the both of them balking at the bloody gall of it. Leliana told her once that the Chantry should welcome dwarves, along with elves and whoever else darkened their doors. She's overheard Cullen calling dwarves “dirty heathens” before, although she doubts the Commander knew she was listening, or he would not have said it. Does their Maker even exist? If he does, would he even care about her at all? Dwarves have no place in their Chant of Light. Only Cassandra seems to truly believe in her, and that, too, makes her want to flee.

Josephine calls out to her as she catches her breath in the hall, her voice gentle as always, but Cadash cannot bring herself to turn around and return.

It’s been like this since they were in Haven. She’s asked them not to do this - not to argue like children scrapping over the last sweet, not to shout like her mother and father once shouted, not to talk about The Herald, _The Inquisitor_ , as though she were not standing in the room with them, as though she were too dull and insensate to add anything to the conversation or to make up her own mind.

Sera always tells her to speak up when she complains to her friend, to just tell them all to shut up. Or just throw some live bees at them and scarper until they grow up. Cadash wishes she had Sera’s courage, but she rarely seems to find it. She’s managed to tell them _no_ , to stop Cullen from sending an army to swat a fly, to stop Leliana from sending assassins to deal with mere annoyances, but there are days like this, days when she cannot get the words to form, to leave her lips.

Instead, she rushes through Skyhold’s main hall and out through the open doors, ignoring the greetings of acquaintances and strangers alike as she stumbles on the landing, her eyes watering at the searing white brightness of a cloudless Frostback afternoon.

 

* * *

 

Cadash knows how to be silent, when it suits her. She can step in a way that causes almost no sound at all, at least none that the average man or elf could hear. She is clumsy in many ways, but this is something she has mastered, something she learned when her life depended on being able to move without drawing attention. 

He always seems to know when she arrives, though. His back is to her, still, as he leans over his work bench. The rhythmic scraping does not change, each rough stroke an even heartbeat. He’s been working on that toy griffon for weeks, ever since they arrived at Skyhold. He’s started and completed other projects in that time, but he always goes back to the griffon sooner or later. 

There’s a slight hitch in the rhythm as she steps into the shade of the barn. She blinks and wipes her eyes dry as the watering finally stops. He pauses again, but when she says nothing, he continues. He knows she is there, of course. He always seems to know. Someday she ought to ask him how, exactly, because she knows she is not making any sound.

She gives up the game of stealth and slumps onto a pile of hay, leaning on the barn wall, letting her eyes following the movement of his hands. She can feel the tension in her body and mind uncoiling, finally, and the relief is so potent she feels lightheaded. 

After a few moments, he glances at her so quickly she might have missed it, if she hadn’t been paying attention. It’s only when he sets the sandpaper down and picks up the hammer and chisel that he finally looks at her in earnest. “They’re at it again, are they?”

She doesn’t answer, or even nod her head, but she draws in a full breath and releases it noisily, rolling her shoulders as though she were stretching them. He nods and returns to his work. “Figures.”

There’s more he could say, but he knows there’s no need. There’s more she could say, but she’s not in the mood to talk. She watches him work, watches his rough hands shaping the wood.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she wakes up under a rough wool blanket with bits of hay sticking to her face and hair. She cracks one eye open to see that the shadows have grown longer and the sun has painted the tops of the battlements of Skyhold a red-gold. The barn, of course, is set at the lowest point in Skyhold, shielding the horses from the worst of the chill wind of the mountains. It cools Cadash’s face, but she is warm enough nestled into the hay and wrapped up in a blanket that was probably meant for the back of a horse. The sun would set soon, and Cadash debates whether or not she wants to move.

Blackwall sits on a crate nearby, perched before a small fire built onto the dirt floor of the barn. She watches his broad back rise and fall with his slow breathing, the only hint that he is a living man rather than some sort of dour statue.

Supper would have been served across Skyhold already, food set out in the barracks for the soldiers, in the main hall for guests, and servants sent out with plates for various members of the Inquisition. There was probably a plate up in her private room already gone cold. She could go to the kitchens and ask for a fresh plate, or sit at a table in the tavern and let Cabot bring her ale and a plate of something greasy and overly salted.

In the end, she does neither, unwilling to give up the peace she’s finally found. By the time the stars appear in the sky overhead, she sleeps again, and does not wake until dawn.


	3. The Goon Squad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a brand new dance but I don’t know its name  
> That people from bad homes do again and again  
> It’s big and it’s bland full of tension and fear  
> They do it over there but we don’t do it here
> 
> (Dari Cadash and Dorian Pavus may seem to have nothing in common, but that's not quite true)

Dari Cadash yanked at the jacket again, grumbling and scowling at her reflection in the mirror. The deep crimson clashed with the auburn-red of her hair, as Dorian had so helpfully pointed out a few minutes ago. She already hated it. “Where did Leliana dig up these uniforms, anyway?”

“A rubbish tip somewhere, I would assume. Far be it from me to critique Southern fashions, but I can’t help but wonder if our dear spymaster was feeling quite herself when she chose them. Still, one must make do, even in hardship, I suppose…”

She watched Dorian’s reflection behind her own as he adjusted his own version of the Crimson Nightmare. It fit him like a glove, of course. The man could make sackcloth look fashionable, much as Dari could make anything look ill-fitting and awkward, no matter how expensive or timely, just by putting it on. She buried her fingers in her hair as she grimaced, pulling at the locks until it almost hurt in her mounting frustration. She heard Dorian tutting behind her at the gesture.

“Oh, don’t start that, it’s still damp - your cowlicks will have cowlicks.” 

She couldn’t bring herself to look up, but pulled her hands out of the rat’s nest on her head and thumped her forehead against the vanity. 

“So dramatic! One might almost mistake you for a Tevinter if you keep that up.”

She lifted her head and shot Dorian a look over her shoulder. He smiled at her, showing his perfectly even, white teeth. Dari was so envious in that moment, she could almost spit, but the feeling fizzled out swiftly. She had few real friends, after all, sycophants looking to curry favor with The Inquisitor notwithstanding.

She’d come downstairs earlier after having thrown on the uniform and had been almost immediately pounced upon by Josephine and Leliana. “ _You cannot show up at the Winter Palace in such disarray, Inquisitor. It would be a greater scandal than murdering the Empress herself! Go back upstairs and please do something with your hair, at least. I’ll send a tailor up later to adjust the jacket._ ”

Josephine had tried to soften Leliana’s censure with a kind smile and reassurance, and had suggested that Dari ask for help if she needed it. Dari hated asking servants for more than whatever their standard duties were, and had repeatedly refused to accept aid in dressing herself. Being seen undressed, much less touched, by a near stranger, made her skin crawl. She hated being _seen_ at all - a poor condition to have in such a highly visible position she had found herself in as the titular head of a quasi-religious paramilitary organization.

_How did I get into this mess?_

It had taken all of fifteen minutes of sitting in front of this mirror hating her reflection for her to abandon all pride and dignity and run crying to Dorian, who, for all his teasing her about her generally messy appearance, had always come to her aid when she’d needed him. On the battlefield, at least. He could be abrasive at times, and his remarks had occasionally stung, but lately he seemed to be trying, at least, not to hurt her. More than once, he’d stepped in to save her from a few sharp-tongued nobles, distracting them with his own verbal ripostes to pull them off some subject that Dari was struggling with. He’d make an excellent negotiator, she’d thought more than once, filing the observation away for the future, perhaps. A diplomat rather unlike Josephine, but useful in another way.

_“You really don’t need my help, Dari, you’re giving the Orlesian court far too much credit. Frankly, they wouldn’t know real style if it fell out of the sky and landed on them. You’re the Inquisitor, just do as you like and call it a new trend, they’ll all be copying you by next Spring. It’s not what you wear, it’s how you carry it. Just stand up straight and don’t show them any fear, and act like you own the place, and you could waltz through there in a bloody paper sack.”_

She’d stood in his small library in the rotunda shifting from one foot to another, practically dancing in her discomfort, his sage advice landing somewhere south of the mark. She’d managed to offend by pointing out that he’d said something almost identical in meaning if not exact words to what Blackwall had told her earlier, but she’d not been dissuaded by him either. _“It’s not the court I’m worried about, it’s Leliana. And I don’t want to give Josephine any grief, she won’t let on she’s nervous about this, but I know she is.”_

So… here they were. 

Dorian sighed softly behind her as he pulled a comb out from somewhere and began straightening her unruly hair, his own frustration growing as it refused to cooperate. The pull of the comb and feel of his hands over her scalp was almost soothing, but he soon gave up as well, shrugging as he crossed his arms and stepped back. “A pomade, perhaps? Your hair is very fine textured… and seems to have a mind of its own. I think I might have something that’ll do the trick, we can try it out later. A bit of a trim might not–”

She interrupted his planning with another groan, pushing down the impulse to begin crying again. She hated this kind of shit, having to entertain nobles at Skyhold was probably the most odious duty of her position, and the upcoming event at Halamshiral would be several magnitudes more intense. At least in Skyhold she was on her own turf and held some authority. The Empress of Orlais and her court at the Winter Palace, however, would not be forgiving of any sort of social faux pas, she’d already been lectured at great length not only by Leliana and Josephine, but also Vivienne, who had taken to coaching her daily for the last two weeks. 

“This is going to be a disaster. Corypheus is going to take over Southern Thedas because I can’t fucking dress myself, what a _joke_.” Dari scratched at her jawline, still feeling raw from the razor. Even if she shaved as close as possible just before arriving, she’d end the night with a shadow if it dragged on past midnight, never mind the amount of elfroot tincture it would take to keep her from going red and itchy. _The ‘Dignity of the Warrior Caste’ my arse_ , _it’s nothing but a bloody nuisance_. 

“If there really is a Maker who put me here, he must have one twisted sense of humor.”

Dorian laughed lowly, leaning against the wall and glancing out the windows at the mountains beyond. “I’ve often thought the Maker had more humor than most gave him credit for - after all, just look at _me_.” Dorian turned back to her, more serious. “You’re not alone, for what it is worth. We all find ourselves being thrust into positions that are…. uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, I know.” She stood, coming over to stand beside him and look out at the humped spine of the Frostbacks. Neither of them really belonged here. Or anywhere, particularly. Both of them were exiles of a sort. The Carta had been a poor fit for her and she’d never really wanted to be there - she just hadn’t seen a path out. Neither could Dorian return to Tevinter, not yet anyway. 

She hadn’t had the heart to bring up the matter of his family again, the encounter with Halward Pavus in Redcliffe the month before still fresh in both their minds. At the time, she’d advised him to speak to his father, to at least leave the door open for some kind of closure, thinking of her own broken and lost family and the death of her mother with far too much left unsaid, but in hindsight, she wondered if it had been wise advice. She knew only a little about magic, and only in the abstract, and even less about blood magic. In the end, though, it was up to him to choose as his heart lead him, she could do nothing to mend such hurts for him, any more than she could her own.

She leaned into his side just slightly, not sure if the gesture would be welcome. He brought an arm around her and squeezed her shoulder briefly. “Well, if Thedas falls simply because the Court of Orlais disapproves of your hair style, I’d say we’ve collectively earned our destruction. But I doubt it will come to that. Not if my collection of hair care products has anything to do with it. That lug of a boyfriend of yours should be quite jealous, if he had any clue what to do with them. Perhaps we can sneak up on him with a bit of rope just before the party?”

She laughed, feeling a twinge of guilt at the image of Blackwall trussed up like a turkey and howling while Dorian styled his hair. “Oh ancestors! He’d die of shame if you tried that…”

“Tch. At least he’d make a more attractive corpse.”

She jabbed Dorian with an elbow, still laughing at her lover’s expense. She pulled the jacket off again, throwing it over the back of the chair. She had no hope that it would ever fit her, no matter what Leliana’s tailor did with it, but perhaps it didn’t matter. _Just act like you own the place_. 

Besides, if she got into too much trouble, she knew someone who could probably murder an entire court with nothing but a few words…


End file.
